


Super Detka

by Petronia



Series: Secret Avengers: Everything Is Embarrassing [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Espionage, Gorbachev was right, Hydra, Kronas, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, conspicuous lack of professionalism, not a coffee shop au, unlikely ever to be canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:59:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronia/pseuds/Petronia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Give me worthwhile intel, not hypotheses," said the Winter Soldier. "The floor plan of another HYDRA plant. OK. A SHIELD medical facility. OK. But taking blood from Captain America is not like taking it from a refrigerator."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Winter Soldier has a problem. It is red, white, and blue, 188 cm tall and 115 kilos in the reinforced suit, and clings to his back like a limpet.

An eye-catching, aggressively _friendly_ limpet, to top it all off.

"Not now, America," he hisses. He shifts his grip on the APB and counts bullets, not bothering to glance around the corner. There's no light, anyway: his first action when the situation fell to shit was to shoot out the overheads. Three targets left – judging by trajectory – one reload. Not normally a crisis. But.

He has no idea who's shooting at him, only that the op's gone awry and his pickup is dead. And those who made him dead do not appear to serve American interests.

Captain America slurs something unintelligible, and cuddles closer. He buries his nose in the back of the Winter Soldier's coat collar. One arm snakes around his middle, and holds on.

"Bucky," he says, for the fourth or fifth time.

"I should have terminated you in Gothenburg," the Winter Soldier sighs.

 

* * *

 

In Gothenburg he did not engage. It was not his business to engage. The mandate was clear: infiltrate the facility and retrieve the contents of refrigeration units 16, 19, and 52. If possible, destroy the remainder. Do not raise the alarm. Do not be traced. Leave no witnesses alive.

There were no witnesses. HYDRA's personnel was otherwise occupied. Captain America and SHIELD came swarming in the front door as the Winter Soldier slipped out the back, and within half an hour the ex-pharmaceutical plant went up in an acrid-smelling chemical explosion.

He got a visual, right before tailing it out of Dodge: a flash of blue, and the glint of metal flying through the air.

He was not happy about having to improvise. The faulty pre-op intel – an entire super-powered SHIELD raid, really? – was nothing short of dangerous. On the bright side, no one was going to come looking for their missing bio-weapon samples. Leontiev's fly-by-night organization had managed to beard HYDRA in its den and walk away with the goods. The Winter Soldier was willing to chalk it up as a win.

The client put paid to that. As always.

"He's not the original Captain America," the Winter Soldier said. "Captain America hasn't been active since the War, and nobody's heard of this guy before he got on TV. The original would be over ninety by now."

He knew it was a lost cause before he opened his mouth. Leontiev looked monomaniacal. Lots 19 and 52 had not performed to expectations.

"So much the better," he said. "Don't you see what that means? _It means they finally reproduced Erskine's serum._ "

"Give me _worthwhile_ intel, not hypotheses," said the Winter Soldier. "The floor plan of another HYDRA plant. OK. A SHIELD medical facility. OK. But taking blood from Captain America is not like taking it from a refrigerator."

Leontiev only showed his teeth. "Oh, there are other ways," he said. "Don't worry. All you'll have to do is watch the exits."

The Winter Soldier could have done with fewer mad scientists in his life.

 

* * *

 

By the time they get to the safe house – the Winter Soldier's own, not Leontiev's, because Leontiev's people are not answering their phones – Captain America is in very bad shape. The Winter Soldier knows this because once they get clear of their pursuers, he tries to blend them unobtrusively into the high street crowd as they walk, and Captain America tries to push him against the nearest wall and kiss him. Repeatedly.

The third time it happens, the Winter Soldier maneuvres them into the mouth of a nearby alley, rolling so that it's Captain America pressed against the brick and not him. America stares at him hazily, and trembles. He doesn't seem as hypersensitive to light and sound as he was earlier, but his colour is high. The Winter Soldier can feel him burning up, right through the stolen trench coat and battle suit and whatever he has on underneath.

He can feel something else through those layers, too, and that can _not_ be comfortable.

"Keep it together, America," he says. "We have to get off the street. Don't draw attention. Do you understand?"

He would bet money America doesn't understand what year it is. His blue eyes rove hungrily over the Winter Soldier's face. So much for secret identities – but he'll have to deal with that eventuality as it comes. It's not like they can stroll down Bahnhofstrasse in masked regalia.

"I thought you were dead," Captain America whispers.

He is, as the youth of his country would say, tripping balls.

"You're thinking of someone else," the Winter Soldier says, as kindly as he can. It does not seem productive to encourage this delusion. But the other man only shakes his head.

" _I saw you fall,_ " he says. "Bucky, I–" He stops, takes a deep, shuddery breath. "There's something wrong with me. I can't think. She did something – that girl–"

His hips hitch upward, and he breaks off with a gasp. The Winter Soldier tries to pull away, put a few inches between them. He thinks it is probably inadvisable to enjoy this. For one thing, if reports are correct, any biochemical cocktail that has an effect this long-lasting on Captain America's physiology is liable to kill him.

"We have to keep moving," he says. "It's not far."

"I want to touch you," says Captain America. His eyes slide closed and he leans forward, into the Winter Soldier's space. "I need it. Please."

They end up walking the rest of the way hand in hand, pressed close to each other's side: warm fingers locked around gloved metal. They get looks, of course. The Winter Soldier smirks back; _yes, isn't he,_ he tries to convey, and _hands off, I saw him first._ Any impression except the right one.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't that Captain America had _no_ tradecraft; merely that his comings and goings were remarked upon. He was in Zurich conspicuously, under guise of a security conference. Leontiev sent a henchwoman accordingly, under guise of an underworld defector. She had an inert sample of HYDRA #19 to back up her cover story, plus an aerosolized solution of #16 and a biopsy kit for the actual mission. The Winter Soldier's role was to disable SHIELD's security perimeter and make sure they weren't interrupted.

"The girl will handle the rest," Leontiev said, leering in textbook fashion. "Captain America is a man, after all, with the foibles of a man; if all goes well, he may not even notice anything out of the ordinary."

So, of course, within ten minutes the bedroom door exploded outward into the hotel suite proper, taking a good chunk of the partition with it.

Amateur hour. He could do with less of that too.

Captain America appeared at the hole in the wall, shirt untucked and wild-eyed. He was wearing his battle suit under civilian clothes, but the headgear was off, and without it he was arrestingly beautiful: azure-eyed and golden-haloed, like a rumpled avenging angel. He held his shield in an attack stance, and when he saw the Winter Soldier he launched it at him.

The Winter Soldier ducked, then rolled to avoid the ricochet. He didn't stop to wonder how he knew where the ricochet would come from, just took a flying leap and knocked Captain America down before he could catch it again. They went rolling over the floor, clutching and jabbing and trying to put the other in a stranglehold. Captain America was strong, and the Winter Soldier had a dicey moment or three before the other man stopped trying to crush his windpipe, grip going slack with surprise.

" _Bucky?_ " he said.

The Winter Soldier took the opportunity to flip them and drive his metal arm into Captain America's throat, using his full inertia as leverage to pin him. The other man struggled to breathe, hands coming up to ward him off, but seemed oddly uninterested in pushing him away.

The Winter Soldier gave it a few seconds, then took the pressure down a notch, out of sheer curiosity. "Who the hell is Bucky?"

Captain America stared up at him, seemingly thrown by the question. His pupils were extremely dilated.

"You are," he said. "Bucky, it's me. Steve. How did you get here? I thought–"

He broke off, on a surprised stutter of breath. The Winter Soldier had leant forward again to cut off his air, since this line of conversation was clearly unproductive, but something about the reaction gave him pause. Then he realized that he was half lying on top of the man, and his leg was – well.

The girl _was_ supposed to handle the rest.

She'd decamped as soon as they'd started fighting; he could see the biopsy kit out of the corner of his eye, abandoned in the midst of the mess of wood and plaster.

Right.

Captain America was still looking at him, breathing hard and getting more unfocussed by the second. There were spots of colour high on his cheeks.

"Bucky," he said, "your arm, it's..." His hand closed around the Winter Soldier's metal wrist. Not a struggle, but an exploratory caress, between glove and coat sleeve. The Winter Soldier reacted defensively anyway, out of reflex, jerking out of his grip.

It was a tactical error. His weight shifted and Captain America shuddered under him, going boneless.

"That feels fantastic," he said, dreamily.

Upon which, of course, the shooting downstairs started.

 

* * *

 

The safe house is small, a one-room apartment, and cold. The Winter Soldier turns the heat up, tweaks the curtains aside so he can see the street, and tries to call for pickup again. There's still no answer.

It doesn't feel right.

The easiest option, at this point, is to write off the operation. He's disabled the tracker SHIELD placed on Captain America, but that buys him only limited time, and the Winter Soldier cannot afford a direct confrontation. SHIELD is well placed to tie a man to a rumour, or a legend; they have plenty of both in their ranks.

But he still has the biopsy kit in his coat pocket. And if Leontiev has merely gone to ground for some reason, the Winter Soldier is still required to complete his mission.

If.

What would he do if Leontiev's organization were compromised?

Move on, he supposes. Go to ground for a while. Keep the goods for resale value, as long as they don't become too hot to handle.

Only – Leontiev hasn't been paying him, has he?

Where was he _before_ this?

The Winter Soldier passes a hand over his eyes. Then he takes the biopsy kit and moves over to the bed.

Captain America is curled in on himself on top of the bedspread, looking simultaneously miserable and like a blue-film dream. He's gotten the costume mostly off, and the under layer as well, though the bottom half is tangled around one ankle. He has one hand around himself, stroking – and wasn't that an impressive sight – but not with intent; more like he's trying to hold off altogether, and failing. His other wrist is at his mouth, muffling any sound. Eyes glazed, blond hair darkening with sweat. His hips are canted up, and the sight of that long curve of spine elicits a limbic response from the Winter Soldier, a dangerous, sympathetic tug of arousal he tries to ignore.

It's not the best situation. Too many unknowns. He should take his damned samples now and leave him to it. But they've been here for twenty minutes, and as far as he can tell, Captain America is getting nowhere but lost in his own head.

He doesn't even react as the Winter Soldier sits down by him.

"Steve," the Winter Soldier tries, and that works; the other man's gaze flickers over and focusses on him, as natural as breathing.

"Bucky," he sighs. His hand stutters, then starts to move again, more steadily.

The Winter Soldier thinks this Bucky, whoever he is or was, must've woken up every morning feeling like he won the lottery. "Sure, that's me," he says. He reaches out and untangles the blue fabric, drops it over the side.

Captain America – _Steve,_ he may as well make this easier – shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says, vaguely.

"For what? You're drugged out of your mind."

"You always take care of me," says Steve. "And I – couldn't – I'm sorry."

The Winter Soldier processes this. He wraps a hand around Steve's ankle, carefully, grounding them both. "Do I take care of you when you're like this?"

"I don't know," Steve says, which is no good answer to a yes/no question. "I wanted to..." The Winter Soldier watches him fight for focus for a long moment, trying to put the pieces together.

"It wouldn't be right," he says, finally. "You don't remember."

He sounds so certain that it prickles down the Winter Soldier's back – _you don't remember_ – at the same time as he's struck by the comedy of the situation: _Steve_ is worried about doing the right thing.

"You're a real boy scout," he says, "but your logic is off. You let me decide what I want, okay?" Then, because he's not sure that one filters through, "Steve. Do you trust me?"

Steve nods to that, pretty much immediately. His eyes are very blue.

The Winter Soldier sets the biopsy kit on the night stand. He puts one hand on Steve's shoulder and leans in.

It's immediately good. Electric, even. Steve tastes like sweat and sunshine, salt-sweet, and he kisses like he's fully present, even if he doesn't really know what he's doing. The Winter Soldier breaks away from it and touches his lips to his forehead, the flushed curve of his ear, to reassure him without words that he's coming out of it all right. Lets himself be pulled down to the bed, and lets their legs tangle together; lets Steve pull off his shirt and nuzzle into his collarbone, work his fingers into the cropped hair at the back of his nape. Caresses that he doesn't allow, with casual lovers, because they engender a gap in defenses.

For the time being, he finds, he wants to be the person Steve thinks he is: the trusted one. The one who took care of him, whom Steve wanted. Who is probably dead, one way or the other.

When he gets his hand around Steve the other man makes a tiny sighing sound and pushes up, into the Winter Soldier's fist. He's perfect, hot and hard and so wet, and easy like anything: it doesn't take much at all to tip him over the edge, as if he were waiting for just that, to be touched by him, as if nothing else would do.

 

* * *

 

Afterward he slips into sleep, seamlessly, like a patient whose fever has broken. The Winter Soldier holds him with his human arm, casually combing a hand through strands of golden blond hair.

He has a few minutes left to think, by his estimate, and so he does. Carefully, weighing his information and his options.

Eventually he gets up, cleans up, pulls a blanket over Steve's prone form. As his next-to-last action, he re-enables the tracker embedded in Steve's suit.

Steve barely stirs, even as the needle pierces the crook of his arm. But his lips curve a little, artlessly, when the Winter Soldier brushes a kiss there (there is no blood; the mark shrinks and disappears).

To be effective, leverage has to be real. But he fancies there will be no resale.

"I'll see you around, _detka,_ " he whispers. "I have some questions to answer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from a Russian pop song, circa a number of years back. Google at your own peril; don't make me explain the lyrics.
> 
> If Brubaker asks, I was never here.


	2. Chapter 2

Within 24 hours, the Winter Soldier learns the following facts:

  * Leontiev's entire organization is gone.
  * Their mystery assailants were not after Captain America. They're after _him._
  * Steve Rogers's former best friend James Buchanan Barnes aka "Bucky" appears in seventeen clips of WWII propaganda short films uploaded to Youtube, mostly briefly or in the background, and is tagged by name in three. He has his own, short Wikipedia page. No birth date, but there's a neutrally-worded description of the circumstances of his death, which "needs additional citations for verification."



In the anonymous budget hotel room he took next to Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, the Winter Soldier drops his shop-new tablet on the bedspread, walks to the bathroom, turns on the light, and – against all habit – stares at himself in the mirror.

He looks older. Not twenty years older, let alone seventy; not like that. But there are lines at the corners of his eyes, and a habit of grimness about the mouth. Stronger shoulders, a changed stance. He doesn't recognize or approve of the way the man moves in the old film clips, despite his obvious military training. But the face is unmistakeable.

As for Steve Rogers, he hasn't changed at all. 

 

***

 

The Winter Soldier remembers other missions: assassination, provocation, sabotage, retrieval. He remembers train tickets and safe houses, stakeouts and gun maintenance. He remembers blowing up weapons stores in the Balkans, kidnapping a Chinese physicist from his ancestral home, and months upon months of tedious hired-muscle duty in Dubai. It’s when he makes himself think about the gaps in between that he realises they go on for too long – or, put another way, there are no gaps where there should be. 2003 follows 1998 in memory, as if nothing of importance occurred in the intervening time.

He remembers... 

He remembers having reasons for the things he did. Marching orders. Moral convictions. Even histories that no longer make sense when he picks them apart. Dreams in which his wants and decisions are those of a stranger.

There is a medical procedure. A protocol. He gets flashes of faces – doctors, probably. Familiar but incomprehensible machine interfaces. He knows that if he goes for long enough without it, the effects begin to break down, and that he's discovered and forgotten this fact many times. He doesn't know if Leontiev was keeping it up, and if so, when.

Mostly what is clear to him is what it felt like, to go under. The important thing was always not to think. The less one thought, the less there was to subtract. Rebellion caused damage. 

It's still very easy not to think about it; to forget it ever happened, if he's not careful.

 

***

 

He has two options. The first is to go to ground, as thoroughly and patiently as a sniper can. His suitors are persistent – he had to take out a tag team of mercenaries in Frankfurt, two weeks after the incident at the German-Swiss border that clued him in – but if he keeps a step ahead of them, his memory may settle of its own accord. It would also give SHIELD a chance to show their hand. The Winter Soldier doesn't like operating on faulty intel, and right now, his _life_ is faulty intel.

The other option is to be pro-active.

After all, presumably someone out there knows more about him than he knows about himself.

He lets the next attempt track him down in Prague, and instead of exiting the scene, he searches the dead and unconscious for the right kind of pre-paid mobile phone. Then he holds his pistol to the forehead of the only operative in any condition to converse, as the man tells him which number to dial.

 

***

 

A full month after the HYDRA lust drug debacle (to call a spade a spade), it’s brought home to him that he hasn’t factored all the relevant players into the game. Because he didn’t _remember_ them.

To wit: Natasha Romanova, aka Black Widow.

He's seen recent videos of her in action, to boot – SHIELD can't expunge all evidence of what happened in New York, not even to protect its own agents' cover. None of it rang a bell. When he encounters her in the flesh, though, she's disguised in platinum hair and bee-stung lips, every Louboutin-inch the blowsy mistress of the Ukrainian gas tycoon to whose arm she clings, and he knows her immediately. Eighteen months of his life slot back into place, just like that. He knows her, he knows whom she's working for, he knows why she's there.

Within seconds he develops a pounding migraine. 

The Winter Soldier lowers his head, gingerly, to the gravel-strewn surface of the rooftop where he's taken up position with rifle and tripod, and soundlessly curses the complexities of his life for a full minute. Then he mans up and takes the shot.

When the target crumples at her feet she doesn't scream _quite_ fast enough: her first glance is upward, so unerringly along the path of the bullet that he has the illusion of meeting her eyes through the sight. She looks annoyed, but not overly shocked.

He doesn't realistically expect her not to put two and two together, after that. 

 

***

 

"Hello, James," she says two days later, in her flat American English. He closes the door and just looks her over, for a moment, allowing himself a smile. She's casually dressed in dark jeans, boots, a black zip-up jacket in some high-tech fabric. Her hair is back to its usual red. Up close, she looks older than he remembers.

These days, that comes as a relief. 

It's a relief, too, to hear _James_ in her voice and realise that it's right. At some point, it used to be right.

"Natasha," he says. "Long time no see." He crosses the hotel room and drops his newly purchased vodka bottle on the bedside table. It's one of the old-school ones, with the pull tab; they don't sell those in Moscow anymore. Too bad he's not going to get to drink it. "When _was_ the last time?"

"'97," she says. "Hong Kong, just pre-handover. But you didn't recognise me."

He thinks he did, actually: there's no explanation otherwise for why he left her alive, that time. But he doesn't say it. 

She's perched on the one armchair, one foot curled under herself, deceptively at ease. He drops onto the corner of the bed facing her, keeping all potential entrances in view.

"I'm just passing through," she says, "as you've probably worked out. But I wanted to stop by. It's good to see you again."

"Likewise." It's the strict truth. He remembers her when she was younger. "Do we have time to crack the Stoli and reminisce? Or is the helicopter due any minute?"

"SHIELD isn't looking for you," she says. "I'm here alone."

He raises an eyebrow at her.

"SHIELD _is_ looking for information on the organisation that kidnapped Captain America for five hours, disabled him with an unknown neurotoxin, and – we infer – took samples of his genetic material for experimentation. We've encountered quite a few dead ends. Two days ago I had a lead, and he took a bullet to the head." 

"Sounds frustrating."

"I'm still working the angles. There's evidence of a bigger fish swooping in on the original op, some kind of double cross. That's an issue: it means the bio-weapon itself is still out there, in the hands of someone willing to use it. And we know it's effective."

So far so expected, with a glaring exception. "You're saying you didn't tell them about me."

_You're saying Steve didn't tell them about me._

Her eyes flicker up briefly, knowingly. "Cap told us quite a lot."

"Ouch," he says, making it light.

"He might have been hallucinating. Anyway, he can't ID who you are now." The _now_ said without emphasis, as if it could mean anything.

The Winter Soldier sighs. "Spent any time surfing Youtube recently, Natasha?"

"I like cat videos," she says. "Particularly the Japanese one that jumps in boxes. And otters. The cell phones never get my good angles, though."

He waits.

"But to your question: yes, the only reason no one's put a name and a face to your track record is because there are very few people who know enough, and none of them have thought to look. The less fuss SHIELD makes about Captain America's miraculously revived pal, the less chance there is that someone else makes trouble for you. But it can't last forever. And, of course, the issue of the neurotoxin is real."

He nods. "So you want me to come in for questioning."

"We want you to come in for _protection._ "

"Is that _we_ as in Natasha Romanova, negotiating agent on behalf of SHIELD? Or – wait – the Avengers?"

The corner of her mouth curves. "You know," she says, "you really did a number on him. No details forthcoming, of course; he clammed right up. But knowing you, I find it easy to imagine." 

 _That_ is a low blow.

"Also, there are touching fictional stories about you two on the Internet. If you Google '20th Century historical—'"

"You can actually stop at any time," he says.

"My point is, Cap cares very much about your welfare. As far as he's concerned, he's known you all his life. Doesn't like the idea of you getting hurt."

"That's real sweet. I don't remember that. Or him."

The moment the words leave his mouth, he knows he's given away the game. He's better at long-distance shots, she's better at this. But she only tilts her head and gazes at him thoughtfully, for a long moment. 

"Your track record is pretty impressive," she says. "It'd be a thick file, if it were printed out. We have educated guesses to fill the gaps."

The Winter Soldier passes his hand over his face. "Natasha, I'm not coming in."

She says nothing.

"Maybe it's plastic surgery. Cloning. Maybe I was a sleeper who faked my death and went over to the Motherland with American state secrets. I'm not going to make a judgment call on SHIELD's intentions, based on information I can't corroborate from memory. _That you haven't even provided._ "

"Well," she says. "That's true. For all you know, I'm bluffing. Maybe I just think team morale would improve if Cap had a steady boyfriend."

He gives her a flatly incredulous look.

"Tony Stark harps on it often enough. He could be onto something."

"You used to be so cute when you were small," he tells her.

She smiles, and glides to her feet.

"All right," she says. 

"All right, is it?"

"The other option," she says, "is we run this con together. Or was that a job you took to pay your hotel bill?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there is an actual plot. No, I'm not 100% sure how long it's going to be. Yes, Steve will be back.
> 
> My best guess is that at this (post-Chitauri) point in time in the Marvel movieverse, Steve/Bucky is Yuletide eligible -- probably within some sort of "WWII historical figures RPF" bucket list. I can't gauge if Avengers RPF would be, though.
> 
> A superspy is a person who can say "neurotoxin" poker-faced when they mean "HYDRA lust drug".


	3. Chapter 3

This is how the phone conversation went, in Prague:

“Well?” someone said on the other end. In Eastern Bloc-accented American English, insofar as the Winter Soldier could tell from one syllable, which... narrowed it down not at all.

“This was annoying,” he said in Russian, “but it’s becoming insulting. What do you want?”

The connection was silent for barely a second, and then his interlocutor burst into laughter.

“Yasha!” he said. “Thank God, I was starting to worry. Listen, you’re not hurt, are you? Those fucking Poles were supposed to pick you up an hour ago.”

“Yes, well,” said the Winter Soldier. The man he’d taken the phone from was staring at him; the Winter Soldier kicked him sharply in the head, and he slumped over. “Your talent pool is shallow.”

“You don’t need to tell me that. Listen, Yasha -- just stay where you are, all right? Keep out of sight, and I’ll swing by and get you myself.” 

“I don’t think so,” the Winter Soldier said. He made a visual check: the street still seemed deserted. He picked a random direction and started walking, fast.

He had a bad sensation.

The thing was, the voice sounded _familiar._ But no name came to mind, no face, no personality, no history. Just a prickle in the pit of his stomach, as if poison were spreading out from his gut.

A sigh, down the connection. “I see. Yes. That fucker Leontiev, what a waste of air... I assumed you’d remember on your own, Yasha. Forgive me. _Prosti menya, malchik vesely, chto ya prinesla tebe smert._ ”

And that was lights out.

 

 

***

 

When he woke up again, the Winter Soldier was surrounded by several _different_ dead bodies. He was standing on a grassy highway embankment, next to an unmarked armoured car, precariously stopped halfway down the slope with its high beams pointed downhill and its back door hanging open. The Winter Soldier could see restraining straps hanging loose from the ceiling of its well-lit innards, and what looked like cabinets full of medical equipment. The driver was sprawled over the wheel; he’d taken two shots to the back of the head. The other three -- no, four -- had fared similarly. 

Overall, there was quite a lot of mess. The Winter Soldier’s work _might_ have looked like that, if his execution had been sloppier than usual. If he had been technically unconscious at the time, for instance.

Some of the blood had gotten on him. His metal hand was sticky with it, threatening to dry stiff.

So.

That could have gone better.

 

 

***

 

Find a man. Make him talk. You don’t know his name or what he looks like, for whom or to what end he works, where he is, or what he wants -- other than you. Also, you can’t actually speak to him in a practical sense, because he can switch your waking mind off and on at will.

“Okay,” says Black Widow, reaching over to pour herself another shot of vodka. “But... your subjective sense is that you were not supposed to kill them.”

The Winter Soldier’s subjective sense is worth fuck-all in this context, but neither he nor Widow is prone to stating the obvious. “I think they tried to put me under and did it badly.”

“Where were they taking you?”

“Halfway down the D1 to Brno. Beyond that, no clue.”

“And the trigger?”

“Is not universal. I bought an Akhmatova anthology if you want to do a dramatic reading.”

“That leaves the goons themselves. The guns, the tech... Find the middleman outfit, set up a cover identity, gain entrance, do work, extract info, rinse, repeat. See if you get any closer to a big picture. So... that’s what you’ve been doing.”

“It’s a mess,” the Winter Soldier says.

“It’s... old-fashioned, certainly.”

It’s as close as espionage gets to brute-force detective work. The Winter Soldier is trained for it, but that doesn’t mean he likes it. “What was the Ukrainian’s deal?”

“Shady biotech. Rainmaker for AIM in the former SSRs. Maybe working up to hinting that he was aware that super-soldier blood samples may be on the market. He wasn’t fishing on his own account, though -- my sense is he was doing someone a favour. You?”

“Business deal gone sour. The usual: gas pipeline, bribes, special investigation. I needed ground-level credentials in to the cartel, this job was it.”

“Mmm. They didn’t take a hit out on the judge instead?”

“The Ukrainian sold out his buddies. Or so I’m told.”

“Or,” says Black Widow.

“Or one particular buddy sold _him_ out, yes.” The Winter Soldier settles back against the headboard. “Big fish. Double cross. That’s the pattern, isn’t it?”

“Actually, the pattern is that you turned up in the middle of the situation and shot someone.”

“That’s what I do.” She looks at him, and he shrugs. “That’s all I do. You got out, Natasha. I was -- how do you say? -- _proliferated_.”

“Right,” she says, “the infamous Winter Soldier. Not as many kilotons as a Stark Jericho, but more precise remote targeting. Do you know what I really hate about your Ukrainian job? Two things.”

“Are you going to tell me what they are?”

“I hate the fact that it looks like a coincidence. And I hate the fact that _you_ think it’s a coincidence.” She leans forward, elbows on knees, suddenly intent. “James, you’re not naive. Whoever he is, you killed a man he had reason to want dead. You nearly gave him Captain America. He has you in play already.”

 

 

***

 

That night, the Winter Soldier lies in the dark, listening to the pipes knock behind the walls of yet another budget hotel room, and allows himself to think about Steve Rogers.

The Winter Soldier doesn’t lie to himself; there’s never anything to hide. So it doesn’t occur to him to deny, after the fact, that in allowing Captain America to be rescued he acted on feeling. He knows that was -- is -- what it is, though it’s deep and formless and he can’t give it a precise name. When he thinks about Steve Rogers it comes over him again, like a delayed ache settling in his bones. He thinks about Steve’s voice and his lips and his slumbering weight against the Winter Soldier’s side, and--

\--that part doesn’t perturb him, not really. If he still had a handler -- if he were following protocol, _any_ protocol -- he would report it as a matter of course. But it unsettles him that Steve Rogers felt _safe._ No one is safe: not Natasha, not the least of purported innocents. No one that he remembers. That they might have fought a war together in the distant past hardly seems sufficient reason.

He doesn’t know why he understands that concept. _Safe_.

 _He’s known you all his life,_ Natasha said.

But the Winter Soldier doesn’t know him.

 

 

***

 

He makes better progress once Black Widow is in the picture. She’s adept at tracing the money -- and, more ingeniously, at tracing _him._

“Give me 2007,” she says, the second time they meet.

“Dubai. March to November. Personal security detail to one Roman Karydakis. No one tried to assassinate him. Last I checked, he’s in Lagos financing a railway.”

“That’s it?”

“It was a lot of fun.”

She disappears; possibly to give a Greek logistics magnate a hard time. He follows her money tip back to London -- specifically, to a nondescript twenty-floor brick-and-concrete office building on the Albert Embankment that houses a number of health-sector charities and medical research company head offices, as well as a blandly modern café on the ground floor. The latter offers egg-and-bacon sandwiches, a surprisingly decent espresso for under two pounds, a stellar view of both the front lobby and the underground parking entrance, and an unusual CCTV dead angle.

He’s three days at his new surveillance post when Captain America walks into the building, dressed as a civilian. Which is to say, he’s wearing khakis and a bomber jacket, sporting a new haircut, and has an enormous leather art portfolio carrier-type object slung over his shoulder that likely offers no protection against commercial metal detectors and is absolutely not conspicuous at all. He stops a few metres before the front security desk, looking determined.

The Winter Soldier will recognise later, with humiliation, that at this point the situation is still salvageable. He can, for instance, slip casually out the side door for a “smoke break” before he’s made, not glancing over his shoulder or making sudden motions that risk drawing attention. Instead he stands in place like a dolt, cataloguing Captain America’s hair and outfit, until the latter turns around and notices him behind the cash register.

“Phwoar,” says Nadine, the other barista, who is cleaning the espresso machine beside him. “Who is _that?_ Not the new prostate cancer spokesman surely... Oh, he’s coming over.”

The Winter Soldier doesn’t budge. Captain America’s body language suggests that if the Winter Soldier makes a false move, _Steve Rogers_ would break into a run; would, perhaps, commit an irreparably superheroic act, such as leaping the counter in a single bound. As it is, he manages to restrain his pace enough that Nadine has time to get out from behind said counter and make a show of wiping down the tables, in order to get a 360-degree view with no concern for subtlety whatsoever.

The Winter Soldier is furious. 

“And what will you be having today,” he says to Captain America with vitriolic sweetness. Captain America blinks and _blushes,_ though he holds the Winter Soldier’s gaze steadily.

“Coffee, please,” he says. “Just regular coffee. Black.”

“That’ll be one pound forty,” says the Winter Soldier. Nadine circles around behind Captain America, ostensibly to refill the milk. She catches the Winter Soldier’s eye and gives him an exaggerated wink.

Captain America hands over the change. “Are you, um... When does your shift end?”

The Winter Soldier pointedly does not look at Nadine, who is imploding. “Are you really doing this?” he says. “ _This_ is your plan.”

Captain America says nothing, but his jaw visibly sets.

“...5PM.”

“I’ll wait.”

And he does. He pulls up a chair at a corner table, mercifully out of sight of the security cameras, and sits there nursing his coffee. For the next hour or so he watches the Winter Soldier surveil the building entrance, and -- the lunchtime rush being over -- pour lattes for the occasional caffeine fiend from the offices upstairs. Eventually he pulls out a _sketchbook._ When the Winter Soldier glares at him he merely smiles back gently, as if he weren’t engaged in a campaign of targeted psychological aggression. 

At half past three Nadine pulls him aside. “Are you a fucking human being,” she hisses.

“I don’t see how I’m the problem,” he says.

“You can fuck right off is the problem. I texted Joe, he’ll be here in fifteen minutes to cover your shift. Just take your boyfriend and go, all right, you’re painful to look at.”

“You’re a doll, Nadine,” says the Winter Soldier. He drops a tenner in the till, pours himself four takeout cups of regular coffee, puts two each in two cardboard holders, and carries the lot over to Captain America’s table. Captain America closes the sketchbook quickly, and stands.

“Are we leaving?” he asks.

“You take this one,” says the Winter Soldier.

They ferry the coffee past the front desk security guard, who doesn’t even give them a glance, and up the elevator to the fifteenth floor, where a young blonde woman holds the door for them and smiles. The Winter Soldier smiles back at her as he slips past, holds her gaze for just a bit too long, and palms the security pass clipped to her blazer pocket.

Captain America follows him down to the end of a far corridor, and into an accessible lavatory. The Winter Soldier locks the door behind them. Captain America frowns.

“Why are we waiting?” he asks.

“The cleaners make their round at eighteen-hundred,” says the Winter Soldier. He sets the coffee down on the floor and goes to take the cover off the toilet tank. “Since today’s Plan A is _rely on blind dumb luck,_ that’s our best window of opportunity. Do you even know what I’m doing? Were you briefed? Or did you just… show up? I assume there isn’t a SHIELD team parked next door listening to this conversation.” 

“Bucky,” says Captain America softly (and, yes, this is what he was hoping to avoid), “I’m so glad to see you, you can’t know.”

“You’re right, I can’t,” says the Winter Soldier. “Were. You. Briefed.”

“I read your file,” says Captain America. Which… wonderful. Just wonderful.

“Then you know you shouldn’t be here.” The Winter Soldier removes the fibreglass gun components from the bag he’d taped inside the tank the previous day, checks them, and starts to assemble them. “Don’t be here, don’t look for me, don’t talk to me. I am not your war buddy. I don’t remember you. I could sell you down the river tonight and not remember _that._ If _anyone_ sees you with me, you’re in trouble, I’m fucked. This is simple, yes? Not hard to understand?”

Captain America opens his mouth to say something clearly heated, then snaps it shut again. He narrows his eyes at the Winter Soldier. “Do you know what happened to your arm?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Do you--” Captain America’s face twists. He takes two rapid steps forward into the Winter Soldier’s space, takes hold of his left wrist in a firm grip, and draws up the sleeve.

The camouflage cover is on, of course. The haptic feedback from the surface is perceptibly different -- though most people would have trouble defining _how,_ if they weren’t expecting it beforehand. The Winter Soldier watches Steve Rogers’s expression. Guilt, he thinks. Guilt over something the Winter Soldier doesn’t remember and frankly doesn’t care about. As far as he knows, he was born with the metal arm, though that seems a ridiculous idea upon examination.

“Why don’t you tell me,” he says. Steve’s head snaps up, and oh, he is close, and his eyes are very blue. The Winter Soldier takes a step back, bumps into the edge of the toilet, and gives it up as a bad job.

“We have two and a half hours to kill," he says. "Feel free to leak as much classified information as you care to. Just keep your voice down."

Steve's lips quirk, wryly. He is still holding the Winter Soldier's hand.

"Well," he says, "at least the coffee's good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual office buildings or coffee shops is entirely coincidental and Google Streetview will tell you nothing.
> 
> The line translates as "Forgive me, merry boy / for bringing you death." IDK, I just fancy the idea of ex-Red Room dudes reading Anna Akhmatova, it's very Le Carré.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sub_divided betaed this (and earlier chapters, only I forgot to credit her because I'm a terrible friend). She is the one you should thank for the makeouts.

They sit, side by side, on the hygienically maintained tile floor, their shoulders not quite brushing. Pretty company, coffee, and access to lavatory facilities: the op may have gone off-script, but by the Winter Soldier's standards it's luxurious.

_Glasnost,_ he thinks, may have its benefits.

Either Captain America is not such a naif as to leak everything he knows, or Nick Fury has managed to play a few cards close to the vest. It's clear, however, that he has indeed read SHIELD's file on the Winter Soldier, plus Black Widow's mission notes -- and not via a proper briefing. To hear Steve tell it, Fury and he had a difference of opinion over Captain America's need-to-know re: an ongoing SHIELD investigation, which resulted in a further schism over SHIELD's need-to-know re: Captain America's own damned business.

In other words, Steve Rogers ran away from home. To go looking for Bucky Barnes.

"It's not the first time, actually," Steve says, shrugging. "Really it's the third." Upon prompting he tells a bare-bones story about going AWOL during World War II, for a prisoner rescue turned full-scale raid on a Nazi science facility. Reading between the lines, the incident was stupidly, legendarily heroic, the sort of stunt that should have resulted in medals or a court martial.

"What about the _other_ other time?"

"Well, you'd gotten kicked out of the orphanage. I started the fight, though, so it wasn't fair."

This is worse than the Winter Soldier previously assumed.

"Listen," says Steve, not meeting his eyes, "I get the picture. You don't want to come in. And Natasha sold Fury, or maybe Fury sold himself, on the idea that SHIELD is better off not trying to bring you in, at least until they break this case. It's critical – once Natasha chased down your leads, she found dozens of incidences of missing tech. None of it should've been out there in the first place. Someone is building an arsenal, and they intend to use it."

This comes as no surprise. At this point, the Winter Soldier assumes he himself is on SHIELD's list of unaccounted-for bio-weaponry. "SHIELD thinks they're playing me back out," he says. "It's no skin off Fury's back if I find his man for him. And if that... doesn't happen, they have other options."

Steve nods. He looks more upset than the Winter Soldier thinks is warranted: this is merely the subtext of the deal he struck with Black Widow.

"And yet, despite that," he says, "you're here."

"I don't think you should have to deal with this alone," says Steve. "It doesn't seem right. That's all." He looks at the Winter Soldier, finally, his mouth set in the stubborn line the Winter Soldier is beginning to recognize as bad news. "We've always had each other's backs."

The Winter Soldier is careful to keep his face blank.

The danger, he thinks, isn't that Captain America lacks the common sense of an idealistic gnat. It's not even the complication of his physical presence: the Winter Soldier can shake him easily, if it comes down to that.

It's that part of him _likes_ the idea of Steve coming to find him.

Actions are what count, after all. Actions demonstrate loyalty. Never mind that Steve is thinking of someone else altogether. If Captain America is willing to put himself out in the cold for the Winter Soldier – repeatedly, in practice – doesn't that make Captain America _his?_

And if Captain America is _his,_ if Steve is loyal to _him_ over SHIELD, then he can—he should—

"I thought this through," Steve says, suddenly. "Don't think I didn't. I thought about it a lot, after... after the last time we met. I trust you, Bucky. I _choose_ to. I won't compromise SHIELD's investigation, but if push comes to shove, I won't force your hand either. You've had enough people making decisions for you; I don't have that right. It's just..."

He trails off. The Winter Soldier puts down his coffee.

"It's just that if you spent more time with me," he says, "and told me more stories about orphanages, maybe I'll remember why I'm supposed to give a damn about you. Is that it?"

Steve looks stricken. The Winter Soldier removes the takeaway cup from his unresisting hand and sets it aside. Then he shuffles a little closer, and leans in.

At first when their lips touch Steve is still – too still for surprise – and the Winter Soldier thinks he's misread. The first time could have just been the drugs; odder things have happened on psychotropics. But when he breaks contact and begins to pull back Steve makes a funny gasping noise and turns toward him, curling into his shoulder as if he weren't a handspan too tall to be held that way. The Winter Soldier puts his arms around him nonetheless.

"Hey," he says, the syllables meaningless apart from the tone. "Hey, Steve, come on." Steve's shoulders shake, a little.

"You're such a jerk, Buck," he says. "How can you – I thought you were _dead._ "

_Your Bucky_ is _dead,_ thinks the Winter Soldier, absently. _And I am clearly compromised, which amounts to the same._

"You should stop fooling yourself," he says. Steve only makes a frustrated sound. It comes out as a warm puff of breath against the Winter Soldier's collar.

"You _are_ Bucky," he says. "I'd know you anywhere. It's... little things. The way you move. The way... I wish I could explain it. But if you stood in my shoes you'd understand what I mean."

"Steve—"

"I don't feel like they erased you," says Steve. "They forced you to be _this_ but underneath you're still you. I feel like they erased _me._ " He takes a longer breath, that shudders then steadies. "I hate the people who did this to you. I hate that they made you forget me. I want to hit them. I don't—I don't even care about the rest." Another breath. "I'm not a good person."

The conclusion seems premature, but the Winter Soldier stays silent. He's out of his depth with regard to such judgments. Instead he pats Steve's back gently, with his human hand.

Steve sighs, after a few seconds, and looks up. "Also," he says, so close that their lips nearly brush, "you didn't hurt me, last time. You could have, but you didn't. So that's what I have to go on."

"Well," says the Winter Soldier, "it was pretty good for me, too."

Steve blinks, then stands, abruptly. He walks – three steps – to the opposite corner of the room, and stands there, head bowed and hand clapped over his mouth. His ears and the back of his neck are cherry red. The Winter Soldier watches in fascination.

"You must be terrible at undercover work," he says.

"You," says Steve, muffled, "are such—you—you're awful."

"And you're an idiot," says the Winter Soldier, "but telling you that seems to be useless."

For some reason, that gets Steve to drop his hand, and look at him, and smile.

 

***

 

When they leave the lavatory (Natasha will never hear this story, if the Winter Soldier has any say in the matter), Steve says, "This – well, this Prostate Cure Foundation outfit. What kind of proof are we looking for?"

As far as Black Widow could determine, the charity is involved in a range of legitimate fundraising activities. Its top donors, though, are all directors of the UK arm of a Moscow-based conglomerate called Kronas Corporation, and the fund transfers are both recent and sizeable. Out of the black- and grey-market ventures that Widow flagged as resulting in "missing goods," half a dozen involve Kronas' subsidiaries, albeit always buried in the extended background. That in itself is telling.

The Winter Soldier has reviewed Kronas's board, C-suite, vice-presidents, and so on down to the regional director level. He recognizes none of them. But that means little.

"Documents," he says. "Electronic files. They may not be physically on the computers here—" he suspects the blond woman employee and her ilk are useless for his purpose—"but there will be access."

"Right," says Steve. He frowns slightly. "You'll have to teach me this hacking business one day."

"Ever the moral beacon of the West," says the Winter Soldier.

The actuality of the operation is less subtle than he expects.

The blond woman's pass gets them into the office, which is a convincingly cramped approximation of a quango operating on hope and a limited budget. On a preliminary check, one of the supply closets turns out to conceal three successive doors, set at intervals down a short hallway that doesn't appear on the floor plan. The first lock (tumbler) and the second (mechanical keypad) are trivial, but the third means business.

"Pressure plate in the floor," the Winter Soldier says. He points it out for Steve's benefit. "Laser sensors there. You stand _there_ and let the door behind you close. Then you have a given number of seconds to enter the code and pass a retina scan, or it triggers a remote alarm."

Steve looks intent. "No traps? Tripwires?"

"Not in the immediate vicinity, at least."

"How much time do you need in there?"

The Winter Soldier considers this seriously. "Either we confirm the Kronas link or we don't," he says. "This security is geared to the physical. Whatever's inside will be in the open."

"Fine, then," says Steve. He sets his bag down, opens it, takes out his shiny red-white-and-blue Captain America shield, marches right over the pressure plate, and sets the shield's edge against the scanner box.

"Do you know what you're," the Winter Soldier begins to say, upon which Steve gives a sharp tap with the thing, and the mechanism cracks in half like an egg and falls off the wall. No klaxons begin to blare. Steve opens the door and slips in.

After a moment, the Winter Soldier gives an internal shrug and follows.

Inside is—

Inside is very bad news.

"They can't," says Steve. He's gone pale. "No one's supposed to—" He walks up to the curved, double-layered glass, touches it. "Bucky. I think it's still alive."

_New York,_ the Winter Soldier thinks, but the realisation is blotted out by a tidal wave of silence. Machines fill the small room, wall to wall. He keeps looking at the interfaces – dials and knobs and keyboards and screens – his eyes skipping over the man-sized creature frozen behind the central glass column. It's not important. What's important is that he's back here.

The silence isn't real, he knows. It's in his head. He should hear the machines hum. That's always the last sound to go, after his own heartbeat, the—

 

***

 

Someone is saying his name.

Is it his name?

 

***

 

"—right. Bucky, look at me. You're all right. Stay with me. We just have to get out of here, all right?"

_There's the alarm,_ he thinks. _Finally._ It's a low, distant whine in his ears, picking up in intensity as he wakes. His eyes are already open; it's consciousness that takes time to resolve.

Steve is standing a few feet in front of him. His hands are held out at his sides, loose and conciliatory; his shield is at his feet. His expression is worried. More worried than usual...? He looks past Steve at the banks of machines lining the walls, which someone has shot up thoroughly. The air is filled with a chemical-smelling white smoke. There is a lot of broken glass, and the floor is wet.

There, on the floor, the thing is—

Steve meets his eyes with something like fear, but also a flash of wild humour.

"Pal," he says, "you got it but good. But now we have to _scram._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of this chapter was written on vacation in Greece, between Mykonos and Santorini. I might send Steve and Bucky there, _if_ they behave.
> 
> Captain America would make a great prostate cancer charity spokesperson. It's a grandpa disease, and he has grandpa cred.


	5. Chapter 5

Natasha's left a number in their dead drop. He breaks the code, calls her from a throwaway phone.

"You can't keep him with you," she says immediately. He closes his eyes and leans against the wall, letting her voice ground him. "He's an – he's a national hero. He can't go indefinitely AWOL. James, what are you doing?"

It's a good question; he's not sure he has an answer. "Dubai," he says. "What did you find?"

He hears her pause, weighing the pros and cons of telling him. "Karydakis is clean," she says eventually. "He doesn't know you exist. That whole year was a plant."

Breathe in, breathe out. "I understand."

"General Karpov. You remember?"

"I remember."

"He was the one who got you out of the USSR, after it broke up. But he didn't trade on you, didn't sell you on. That Hong Kong mission was the last one you ran for him. He died of natural causes in Dubai, in 2007. Your trail restarts a year after that: Cairo, Lagos, Algiers, Marseille..."

"Paris," he says. "Marseille, then Paris." _Paris, Natasha, remember Paris?_

But no. That was long ago, if it happened at all. They were different people then.

"Paris, yes," she says, evenly. "London was right after that. A long gap after London, then you turn up in Manila. From there, Singapore; then another blank in the record. Then Bangkok. Then Zurich, which brings us up to the present day."

He remembers those jobs. Leontiev found him in Bangkok, or the other way around. "You found a pattern."

"Yes."

"What was it – I turn up in the middle of the situation, shoot someone?"

"You go to work. There's a mid-level criminal outfit in the picture, like Leontiev's, aiming to make the next league – maybe they hire you, maybe they're the mark. They want to pull off a heist, or a complex deal of some kind. The setup takes weeks – months. Then it goes haywire. Sometimes a feud erupts. Or the cops conduct a raid. Or a bigger organization gets interested and muscles in on the first outfit's turf. People get killed or arrested. Goods go missing."

"And I move on," he says.

"Yes."

He closes his eyes. "I can't see the _why_."

She sighs, a little, down the connection. "I know."

"Do you," he says, then has to pause and restart. "Do you remember the machines? There was… there was a room."

"No," she says, though he can hear that she knows what he means. "They never let me remember that. Or I never managed to. You spent more time there than I did."

"They rebuilt it," he says. The words disappear into the darkness behind his eyelids. " _Someone_ rebuilt it."

The pause is so long this time that he thinks he's lost her.

"This was the financial transaction?" she asks, finally. He can't read her voice. "London?"

"Kronas Corporation," he says. "They kept a live – they had one of the aliens, from the invasion. They were running tests. Wanted to know what they could do… Natalia." He shouldn't call her by name over the phone; she called him by his. "Natalia, I know I was in there. Not in Department X but _there._ I destroyed the facility, so they know it's me. Tell me who they are."

Silence.

"No diplomacy. No due process. Full deniability. If I mess up, I mess up. 'S what the team wants, right?" The handset's plastic frame makes a tiny sound of strain, and he has to force his grip to relax. "Our hero won't be involved. I'll make sure he stays out of it."

"You'd better," Natasha says.

Then she tells him.

 

***

 

Steve is still in the shower when he hangs up. He takes his rifle apart, cleans it, and puts it back together. Then he does the same with his handgun. Then the handset, even though he doesn't intend to use it again.

The sound of running water is soothing. He doesn't look at the door of the hotel room, or the bright-painted shield propped against the foot of his desk. He runs through the motions until muscle memory settles, becomes familiar, and he is the Winter Soldier again.

(But the Winter Soldier is…)

The water turns off. Sometime later, the bathroom door opens. The Winter Soldier realises he has been sitting motionless, hands on knees, staring straight ahead at nothing. He makes himself relax, and looks up.

Steve has dressed again, in dark jeans and a black t-shirt. His hair is still damp, and his feet are bare. He looks relieved to see the Winter Soldier, though he hides the reaction quickly – as if he expected his Bucky to run.

"What did Natasha say?" he asks. He crosses the room to the window, and adjusts the curtain so he can lean against the frame and look out without making himself visible. The neon billboards across the street throw bars of shifting colour across his face, over the desk and floor and far wall.

"She says we should draw attention," the Winter Soldier says. He gets to his feet and approaches, moving to the opposite side of the window, so he can face the door and Steve at the same time. "Make them come to us. We have a window of opportunity, but we're on our own."

Steve nods. "It has to be rogue action," he says. "SHIELD can't appear to know what we've done. Kronas won't move to take the bait otherwise."

He doesn't look surprised. He looks worried, and sad, and so beautiful it makes the Winter Soldier feel entirely lost.

The thing is, there is still nothing tangible there. He doesn't remember growing up with this man; doesn't remember fighting a war by his side. Maybe, he thinks, his memories of Natasha have only survived because they're relatively recent. Maybe the human brain is just like a hard drive: rewrite often enough, thoroughly enough, and no amount of effort will retrieve more than the garbled ghost of what used to be.

He has to stop trying to remember. Thinking is – difficult. He can feel the white silence, lapping at the edges of his conscious mind. Waiting for him to chase the memory of a memory past the point of no return.

Steve is watching him. "Talk to me, Bucky," he says, voice soft. "What are you thinking?"

"Thinking I'm a bad influence on you," he says, automatically. Steve gives him a wry smile.

"That can be argued," he says. "I got you into trouble as often as the other way around."

"I would've—" _done anything you wanted,_ he almost says, because in the moment it's true. _If Bucky ever felt like this, he would have followed you anywhere, given you anything – all you had to do was ask_.

But that, too, could be illusion. He doesn't know how Bucky felt about Steve. Maybe the man pulling his strings saw those old movies and made an educated guess. Maybe he's been put here to give Steve Rogers exactly what he wants, so that Captain America will walk through a door of his own choosing with his eyes wide open.

Or... maybe that was one layer of programming too many. Maybe he's been driven past the limit of his usefulness, and now he's merely broken.

That comes nearest to describing his sense of the situation, anyway.

Something must show on his face. Steve's eyebrows draw together. "Hey," he murmurs, and takes two steps forward, so that he's framed by the window. His hand lifts involuntarily to touch, then lowers, uncertain.

This much should at least be true: Bucky Barnes, too, would have thought like a sniper.

"Come here," the Winter Soldier says, and takes Steve's arm to draw him back into the shadows, draw him close.

Steve makes a sound, low in his throat. When the Winter Soldier's back hits the wall he keeps moving forward, so that there's no air between them and nowhere to go. He twists his arm in the Winter Soldier's hold, and all of a sudden his grip is warm around the Winter Soldier's human wrist and a steady pressure on the other, pinning them to the wall. Not full strength, just enough force to convey intent. The Winter Soldier shivers.

"All right," he says. "All right, you—"

Steve kisses him, more assured now than the first time, or the second. It's intimate, coaxing.

The Winter Soldier closes his eyes. Tries not to think.

Steve shifts again, presses against him. His knee nudges the Winter Soldier's thighs apart.

A car alarm blares loudly, in the street below, and is abruptly cut off. Steve breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against the Winter Soldier's. For a moment they just breathe each other's air.

"Let me," Steve says.

 

***

 

His world has narrowed to one room: two double beds. Two armchairs. A writing desk. A television set. A ceiling light and bedside lamps, all extinguished. A partial view of a brick wall, across the street and three stories up, and beyond it the neon slick of the city, a patch of never-quite-dark sky.

Did they use to be like this, once?

The Winter Soldier wants to ask, but he can't formulate the question. He's sitting on the edge of the bed furthest from the door, and Steve Rogers is kneeling at his feet, gaze intent in the dimness and hard to read. His colour is high, but his hands are steady as he undoes the Winter Soldier's belt.

"I thought about this," he says. "Doing this."

The Winter Soldier leans back on his elbows. He feels dizzy. "With Bucky?"

"With you." Steve works down the zipper, reaches in; his hand is startlingly warm. "Today," he adds, as if he wants to be clear. He bears down with his palm, experimentally, and the Winter Soldier concentrates on keeping his breathing steady.

"You're a quick learner when you're sober," he says.

"Take these off," says Steve.

Once underwear and trousers are tangled around the Winter Soldier's shins Steve ignores them, and leans in. The Winter Soldier bites his lip at the first hot swipe of tongue, but doesn't entirely manage to swallow the sound. Then Steve keeps going, and he forgets to try.

Steve isn't patient. He tries to take it at once – thinks he _should_ be able to take it, clearly; that the gag reflex is a false limitation on which to fight the body and win. It's clumsy at first, before he finds his rhythm, and then it's mindless sensation and heat. When the Winter Soldier tries to move with him he finds himself flat on his back, one leg hooked over Steve's shoulder in such a way to give Steve all the leverage and himself none. Fear spikes in his mind, along with a sudden, helpless arousal that takes him off guard.

"Fuck me," he hears himself say. Steve's movement falters, and he tangles his metal hand in Steve's hair to make him keep going. "Do it, give it to me, just, ahh—"

Steve lifts his head. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You're not going to hurt me," the Winter Soldier says. He half-means, _I am not going to hurt you_. His fingers are nearly around Steve's throat. Easy to apply pressure, now that Steve's off guard, to— he squeezes his eyes shut. "Lubricant in the left side pocket of the Samsonite. Use your fingers. I can tell you want to."

"Jesus, Bucky," Steve says, his voice rough. He pulls away to rummage. The Winter Soldier lets his hand fall loose against the bedspread. He's hyper-aware of Steve's presence and movements; he doesn't need to look or touch. Doesn't need. Wants.

When Steve returns he takes off his shirt and lies down facing the Winter Soldier, scant inches away. This close, he smells of warm skin and sunlight, just like the first time, and the Winter Soldier's throat seizes with desire. He shifts nearer still, presses an open kiss against Steve’s collarbone. Steve runs his hand, caressing, down his shoulder and back.

"Show me what to do," he says. The Winter Soldier catches his hand and pulls it between his thighs.

By the time Steve gets inside him he's lost his bearings completely, but it doesn't matter. He doesn’t need to know who or where he is to feel this. In any case Steve is certain of him, says his name over and over in rushed breaths as if it were surety, so he can be whoever and wherever Steve wants him to be. Which is Bucky, under and around him and asking with his entire body to be fucked. Steve pins him with his weight, is heat and pressure and sharp forceful motion, the entirety of physical reality as an occupying force; he can’t spread his legs wide enough to accommodate or catch his breath to beg, but the pleasure is more obliterating for the fact that it’s half pain. He’s hard against the sheets, the friction maddening.

Then Steve pulls him back into his lap, wraps a hand around his cock and his other arm around his chest to keep him steady, and he howls and catches hold of something – the covers, a pillow? – that tears in his grip. Steve strokes him roughly and drives up into him – a second, third time – and that sends him tumbling over the edge, spiralling down into nothing whiteness.

Only Steve is there, holding him in place.

 

***

 

It was a pillow. The down settles like snow; he supposes it’s a pretty picture.

“When this is over,” Steve murmurs against the nape of his neck. He doesn’t seem to want to sleep, which would make all this easier. His arm is a warm _safe_ weight around the Winter Soldier’s middle. “We could go somewhere. Anywhere.”

The Winter Soldier closes his eyes. “Back to SHIELD?”

“Your choice,” says Steve. “I’ll follow along. Just like old times.”

For a moment _safe_ is nigh unbearable. The Winter Soldier breathes, in-out, and the feeling passes.

“Well,” he says, “someone has to be the brains of the operation.”


End file.
